


Rock of Ages

by Winter_of_our_Discontent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A few hunts, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-lite, Getting Together, Less Oblivious Sam, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Oblivious Castiel, Oblivious Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7280296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It starts because they need a rock. Not, of course, just any rock, but apparently this particular critter needs an Aztec-style obsidian-and-jade dagger right through its human-teeth-and-eyeball-eating heart to actually kill it.</i>
</p><p>In which Cas gets a ring, and Dean (finally) gets a clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock of Ages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reluctantabandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/gifts), [PorcupineGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PorcupineGirl/gifts).



> Lyrics in divider segments are from Def Leppard's _Rock of Ages._

*** **Heh heh heh heh** ***

  
  


It starts because they need a rock. Not, of course, just any rock, but apparently this particular critter needs an Aztec-style obsidian-and-jade dagger right through its human-teeth-and-eyeball-eating heart to actually kill it.

 

This particular chunk of monster-infested middle America is way too conservative for any New Age witchy kinda places, so they end up at some rock shop in the middle of a strip mall. Only it’s a rock-and-jewelry shop, with a mix of strings of beads and carved chunks of rock and sparkly things in glass cases. He wonders what the hell the saleslady makes of them, still in their black Fed suits. At least the suits mean they look like they can afford shit here, she’d probably call the cops on them if they came in wearing their usual plaid. He just hopes the lady here has what they need, because if this doesn’t work they’ll have to rob a museum or something; they’re kinda on a tight schedule.

 

Sammy always whines when they have to rob museums.

 

Sam’s trying to explain what they need to the saleslady, how it’s absolutely crucial that it’s nephrite and not jadeite, so Dean leaves him to it and wanders over to look around at the display cases. There are some crystal skulls that look right out of that one shitty Indiana Jones sequel and these kinda cool little trees out of twisted wire with bits of stone for the leaves.

 

Then he spots these rings. They’re all variations on pretty basic silver bands, kinda like his ring, but the texture is this strange criss-crossing pattern. Not like a regular grid, but more like someone’s scratched over the surface with a rough sandpaper in a million different directions, the lines softly catching the light. He’s bent over the case, turning his head left and right, trying to see what the little string tags say so he can figure out what the hell they’re made of (and seriously why are the tags so tiny and facing the wrong way? What’s the point of having a tag if you put them so you can’t read ‘em?)

 

The saleslady, who can probably smell interest, turns away from Sam to look over at him. She’s smiling in a way that’s meant to look friendly and approachable, but Dean’s been hunting for too long to not know a predator when he sees one. “Can I show you any of the rings?”

 

Dean immediately straightens and wraps his hands around his back. “Uh, no, just… looking.” She’s just about to go back to Sam’s question when he gives in and adds, “What are they made out of? The silver ones with the lines?”

 

She brightens, clearly sensing weakness. “Those are actually made of genuine meteorite, some of them over four million years old. Each tag says where they fell to earth.”

 

“Space rock?” Dean says, impressed in spite of himself. ‘Cause hey, space rock.

 

“Meteorites can provide balance and help activate the third chakra,” she adds unnecessarily. Dean’s already tuned her out, staring at the rings again. Space rock. Badass.

 

“So about the nephrite...” Sam says, drawing her attention back to him. 

 

Dean’s never been much of a jewelry guy; there’s Sam’s little bronze dude, of course, or at least there used to be, and there’s his ring, and a couple of wrist things he likes, but that’s it.

 

But there’s something about these rings that’s kind of compelling. Not in a One-Ring-to-Mordor sort of way, just a this-is-kinda-cool-looking sort of way. Man, what is his life that that’s a legit consideration.

 

What the fuck. It’s not like it’s his credit card anyway. “Actually, yeah, lemme see the rings.”

  
  


*** **Now listen to me** ***

  
  


“What was that back there?” Sam asks as they leave. Dean’s making him carry the cutesy little paper bag with tissue sticking out that she insisted on putting the jade dagger in. Dean’s new space rock ring is rattling around in a tiny cardboard box in his inside jacket pocket.

 

“What, me letting you handle it?” Dean asks, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Figured you were a better shopper than I was.” 

 

“No, the buying jewelry thing.”

 

Dean shrugs. “Just felt like it.”

 

Sam, unfortunately, is like a dog with a bone. “Did you buy it  _ for  _ someone? You’re not wearing it.”

 

“If I buy new underwear do I gotta put it on right away? Now are we gonna go change and gank this thing before someone else gets drowned or snacked on or are we going to discuss coordinating our outfits?”

 

Sam makes a face but thankfully lets it go.

  
  


*** **I’m burnin’ burnin’** ***

  
  


They gank the  ahuizotl . They even manage to save the last victim from drowning, and she seemed grateful. Like,  _ grateful _ , grateful. Like grateful-all-night-long grateful.

 

He gets another weird look from Sammy when he dodges her attempts to invite one or both of them back to her place. Which, yeah, she’s easy on the eyes and all, but he’s tired and sore, missing one of his fingernails, both he and Sam are completely soaked, and everything smells like a wet dog... _ thing _ which is a total boner killer.

 

Maybe he’s getting old, hell in Hunter years he’s probably pushing a hundred and fifty, but Dean just wants to get back to the bunker and take a nap.

  
  


*****I got the fever*****

  
  


They see Cas about a day later, which is good, because mojo or no, Dean doesn’t trust those other dicks with wings he’s still palling around with sometimes. As far as he’s concerned, they forfeited their right to be Cas’ family ages ago. But it’s also bad in that he and Sam are still a little the worse for wear from the hunt, which of course the angel immediately zeroes in on.

 

“You’re hurt,” Cas says, in that tone of voice that implies somehow it’s Dean’s fault he was briefly an  ahuizotl chew toy, which, for the record, could have happened to anyone. They’re slippery little man-eating shits.

 

“Yeah, it’s no…” but before he can tell him hey, he’s totally grown back fingernails before, no big deal, Cas is inches away from him doing the two-finger-to-the-forehead heal.

 

As usual, the grace feels like the burn of an expensive whiskey sliding through him. Or maybe that’s just Cas, fingertips leaving a warm, lingering spot on his forehead as his hand pulls away.

 

“You’re fixed. I should go, I have some important...”

 

“No!” Dean says, surprising both himself and Cas with his vehemence. “Uh, that is to say… no. Not yet.”

 

Cas tilts his head, waiting silently for Dean to continue.

 

“I, uh… I got you something,” Dean says, hands patting himself down before he realises it’s still in the pocket of his suit, which is currently… back in his room, hanging up to dry.

 

“Just wait. Here. In this room. Right there.  _ Don’t,”  _ he points his finger at Cas, “leave. I’ll be right back.” 

 

He practically sprints back to his room, because… well, just because. And if his heart’s hammering a little when he starts fumbling around in the inside pocket of the jacket, well, he  _ was _ just running.

 

The box almost disintegrates when he pulls it out of his suit pocket. It’s been smashed almost flat during the fight and is still damp and… ugh, yeah, smells like wet monster hair. But the ring looks totally fine, so he pulls it out of its squashed and soggy container, tosses the bits of paper and cardboard in the trash, and quickly rubs the ring dry against his jeans.

 

He makes his way back to the library before he can second guess himself. “So... this is for you,” Dean says, holding the ring towards Cas as though he’s afraid it’s going to bite at least one of them. “It’s space rock.”

 

Cas picks it up as gingerly as it was offered, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger and squinting at it as though his angelic vision needs the extra help. 

 

“From a meteor,” Dean continues, because he can use his words. “I just saw it and I thought… I dunno. Reminded me of you.“

 

“The Gibeon meteorite,” Cas says, voice sounding as distant as his topic. “I remember when it fell. It was a Tuesday afternoon. A giant ball of fire and molten metal crashing from the heavens into the earth. The planet didn’t have life yet, which was just as well, as it would likely have startled them very badly.”

 

And now Dean’s fucking kicking himself because what was he thinking, giving something that fell  _ from space _ to someone who had to watch his entire family fall  _ from space _ .  _ Great fucking job there, Winchester. Knocked it out of the fucking park. _ He’s about to try snatching it back, maybe he can distract Cas with… shit, maybe a funny cat video or something? He likes those… when Cas looks back up at Dean.

 

He’s smiling, that dumb, infectious gummy smile of his that takes up half his face and always makes Dean feel about ten degrees warmer. “Thank you, Dean. It’s beautiful.”

 

Dean lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “Yeah, no…Glad you like it, Cas.” 

 

They stare at each other for a minute. “Uh, if you don’t have to be anyplace… you wanna watch a movie or something?” Dean asks. “We just got Netflix.”

 

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” Cas says quickly, like he’s afraid Dean’s gonna change his mind. 

 

“Cool. So, uh…” Dean rubs the back of his neck.

 

“Movie?”

 

“Yeah. How’s  _ Easy Rider _ sound?”

  
  


*****I know for sure*****

  
  


“So when’s the date? Am I gonna be his best man or yours? I’m going to be really hurt if I’m not your best man, Dean,” Sam says, fake pouting at him over breakfast. 

 

“With that hair you’re gonna be flower girl,” Dean replies, because it’s morning and his brain and mouth aren’t synced up just yet.

 

Once his brain catches up, though, it starts working overtime. “Sammy what the hell are you…”

 

“I saw Cas wearing the ring, Dean. That ring  _ you _ insisted on buying on that hunt in Missouri, remember that ring? Imagine how surprised I was to see him wearing it. And yet somehow… not surprised at all.”

 

“Look, I dunno, it just reminded me of him or something. Angel, space rock. Thought he’d appreciate a pick me up.”

 

“Dean, a pick me up is taking him out for a burger. You just gave Cas a ring.”

 

“Dude, it’s just a stupid piece of space…”

 

“Jewelry, Dean,” Sam interrupts him, then starts speaking really slowly, like he thinks Dean’s being extra dense. “You got Cas a piece of  _ jewelry _ . A  _ ring _ . And what would Lisa or… or Cassie have thought if you’d given them something like that?”

 

Dean’s eyes widen as it hits him. “Shit.”

 

Sam looks at him with something like pity, because Sam is an asshole. “Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything to him. It’s Cas, he probably has no idea. Just think things through more next time, okay?” he says, rising from the table. He slaps Dean on the shoulder as he passes. “Or, y’know, you could just make an honest angel out of him.”

 

Sam doesn’t turn around to see the finger Dean is giving him, but he’s definitely not gonna miss when Dean shortsheets his bed.

  
  


*****There ain’t no cure*****

  
  


Dean washes Baby, and does the dishes, and some laundry, and cleans his guns, and all the while he’s kinda thinking about what Sam says, like an itch he can’t quite reach.

 

Dean doesn’t have a plan for what he’ll do next; it’s more along the lines of a barely contained sense of panic.

 

It’s just a stupid ring, after all. 

 

Cas is still shitty at all things human, at least. So no way he’s thinking it means… what Sam’s suggesting.

 

Which it doesn’t.

 

Mean that.

 

He just saw it, and he liked it, and subconsciously it must’ve made him think of Cas, ‘cause giving it to him felt right. Why does it have to mean anything? Can’t a dude just buy his best friend a ring without it meaning stuff?

 

….okay yeah put like that it kinda sounds like something.

 

So yeah, he doesn’t have an actual plan when he calls Cas up, he just needs to see him. 

 

Only now he’s kinda nervous about it too, so it takes him another day or two to actually get in touch again.

 

It’s not like Cas is gonna take it off to shower, and it’s not like Dean’s just gonna ask for it back, so…

 

“Hello, Dean.”

 

“You’re wearing it,” Dean says, surprisingly surprised. Stupid, because Sam already told him Cas was wearing it. But it’s different, seeing it on him.

 

“That’s the side you wear yours on,” Cas says, twisting the ring around on his finger like he’s nervous. “Is that incorrect?”

 

“Yeah, no, that’s uh… that’s cool, Cas.”

 

“You know,” Cas says, as though what he’s about to say isn’t going to feel like an angel blade through Dean’s ribcage, “in all my aeons of existence, I think this is the first actual gift anyone has ever given me.”

 

And now Dean feels like an asshole. “It… it suits you, dude,” he chokes out. “Looks good on you.” And it does, actually. It’s simple, basic, the silver metal sitting comfortably on Cas’ right hand, but when the light hits it you can sorta make out a bit of the meteorite’s texture. Hidden depths. Like Cas. 

 

Sam can shove it, hell,  _ Dean _ can shove it. It’s Cas’ ring, and after everything he’s been through one piece of stupid jewelry that’s  _ his _ is the least he fucking deserves. 

 

“I’m glad you like it,” he adds, and it’s amazing how much he completely and utterly means it.

 

Cas puts his hands back down at his sides. “Why did you call, Dean? You don’t appear to be injured.”

 

“No, I just…”  _ was gonna try and get the ring back before I realized what a fucking douchebag that would make me, but I don’t want you to immediately leave like you always do _ ... “Did you want to go get a burger?”

 

“What’s the case?” Cas asks eagerly. “Are we undercover? Is the restaurant haunted?”

 

“No,” Dean says, maybe a little too strongly, from the way Cas flinches just the tiniest bit. “No, dude, I just thought we might wanna go get a burger. I found this great diner place not too far from here, and Sammy never appreciates red meat.”

 

Dean stops by the makeshift workout room to give Sam a heads up that he’s heading out for a bit; Sam just grunts at him from where he’s doing push-ups with headphones in. Knowing Sam it’s probably some book on tape.

 

They take Baby, of course. Cas offers to angel taxi them there but no. Just no. (He thinks Cas is just happy to have the juice to do it again.)

 

“I’ll have one of the Works burgers, side of fries,” Dean tells the waitress. After a moment’s deliberation Cas orders the same.

 

Cas’ first bite of the burger is tentative, like he’s not sure if something’s going to explode. “The molecules,” he explains, before taking a larger, more confident one. “They’re very good molecules.”

 

“Dude, you’ve got...” Dean gestures at his own face. Cas stares at him uncomprehendingly. “On your…” He gives up, grabs a napkin, and leans across the table to wipe carefully at Cas’ cheek. “There,” he says. Cas looks almost frozen. “You had ketchup on your cheek,” Dean explains, showing Cas the dirty napkin like it’s evidence of something.

 

“Oh,” Cas says, eyes dropping back down to his food. Dean follows suit.

 

“‘s good, right?” he asks a few minutes later, his own mouth full of half-chewed burger in a way that Sam would give him grief about if he were here. Which he’s not. Just Dean and Cas. Just two friends having a burger together.

 

Cas nods.

 

Dean takes advantage of his distraction to steal a fry from Cas’ basket. Cas glares at him. “Dean, that was my fry.”

 

Dean grins. “Fries always taste better when they’re someone else’s. It’s science.”

 

Cas narrows his eyes and then, with the battle-honed reflexes of a warrior, swipes one of Dean’s fries. He chews it thoughtfully, like he’s trying to taste the difference. “Further study may be required.”

 

Dean laughs, because… because  _ Cas _ .

 

Here he is in a shitty, vinyl-upholstered booth knocking knees with a dude who saw the first freakin’ sunrise, an immortal seraph who was literally created by God to be an unstoppable fighter, but who’s also a dorky little guy who discovered free will, likes bees, and still can’t tie his own damn tie. And who just got ketchup on his face again.

 

What is his life.

 

They spend the rest of the meal swiping each other’s fries while Dean tells Cas stories about some of the weirder diners he and Sammy have come across (“ _ Clown _ themed, you should have seen his face…”) and Cas tells Dean what the dinosaurs were really like. (“They had such beautiful plumage, Dean.”)

 

They have pie too, of course. Dean orders a slice of cherry for himself and an apple for Cas. That way they can try both, because Dean is a master tactician like that.

 

“Of course we’re getting it ‘a la mode,’ Cas, that’s French for living a little,” Dean tells him, lazily scooping up a forkful that perfectly blends warm cherry pie with melting vanilla.

 

“That is not what ‘a la mode’ means, Dean, it means--” Dean rotates the fork and shoves it in Cas’ mouth.

 

“--it means eat your damn pie, Cas,” Dean says, amused as Cas does just that. “They’re freakin’ awesome molecules.”

 

Cas finishes chewing and starts to reply, but Dean shoves a new forkful full of Cas’ apple pie at him. “Nope, you gotta compare.” Cas makes this amazing face as he eats, this weird combination of intense and childlike. Dean can tell he’s enjoying the pie, though. Which is important. He’d like to be responsible for dragging Cas into something good for a change. Not that free will isn’t great and all, no regrets there, but something that’s good that involves less dying a lot.

 

“So?” Dean says, leaning forward. “How is it?”

 

Cas looks thoughtful, like he’s rifling through all the words in all the languages he knows in order to find the right one. “Good,” he says solemnly. 

 

Dean leans back, relieved. “Told you, man, good food here.”

 

“Are you going to eat yours?” 

 

Dean realises he hasn’t actually had any of the pie yet. “Yeah, of course,” he says, shoving some of his pie into his own mouth, then grinning up at Cas with full cheeks and cherry-stained teeth in a way that would disgust Sam. It seems to amuse Cas, though, who just grins back.

 

And it’s good, man, it’s so good. It’s not perfect-- everything’s still going to shit, Sam’s back at the bunker, and some kinda nineties alternative crap is coming out of the diner’s speakers-- but it’s good. It’s him and it’s Cas and there’s pie and Cas is smiling at him and he can feel his knees bumping against Cas’ under the table and it occurs to him that all things considered, this is probably as good as he’s likely to get. And it’s pretty goddamn good. Probably better than he deserves.

 

Fuck perfection, anyway. You know who wants perfection? Angels, that’s who. They can have their damn perfection, Dean just wants…

 

He just wants…

 

He  _ wants _ ...

 

Pie. He definitely wants more pie. 

 

It’s really good pie. He shoves another forkful in his mouth.

  
  


*****So feel it*****

  
  


Dean actually sees Cas again about a week later, when he and Sammy meet up with him outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma in the lot of a shitty motel just off the highway so they can help him out with what Cas thinks may be a tulpa. It’s apparently not the kind of problem angels are very good at solving.

 

“So… a tulpa? In Tulsa,” Dean asks again.

 

“Yes, a tulpa in Tulsa,” Cas repeats dutifully for what is also not the first time.

 

“A Tulsa tulpa.”

 

“Yes, it would be a Tulsa tulpa.”

 

“A tulpa from Tulsa.”

 

“Dean,” Cas asks, somewhere between earnest and annoyed, “have you recently received a serious head injury?”

 

“He was dropped on his head a lot as a baby,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

 

“That would have been very careless of your parents, Sam.”

 

“Shut it, Abbot and Costello. Okay, okay, moving on…” Dean says, “Tell us what you have on the… the  _ monster _ .”

 

Cas shows them all the info he’s acquired, pinned up to the motel wall like Baby’s First Hunting Grid. There are even lines of red yarn stretched tightly between newspaper xeroxes and printouts and Dean has a sudden vision of Cas awkwardly hitting a craft store just to buy that single ball, then an office supply place for the pushpins, and then carefully pinning and winding together all of it to create this intricate map of all of the deaths. 

 

“Good job on the research, Cas,” Dean says, slapping him on the back. At least, he means to, but his hand sort of slides down Cas’ back instead from his shoulder blade to just above his waist before Dean pulls it away.

 

He clears his throat. “So where we hitting first?”

  
  


*****Don’t fight it*****

  
  


So the Tulpa was created by some wannabe witch with too many followers on Snap-o-gram or whatever who wanted to be prom queen just a little too much. They stopped it from taking out any more of the competition, at least. They couldn’t stop Sabrina directly because she’s underage and human and Dean had crumbled under the double-teaming of his brother and Cas’ sad puppy eyes, so he’d had to settle for a threat to come back if she tried anything again, a pretty detailed description of what the tulpa would have done to her when it inevitably turned on its creator like they always freaking do.

 

...And anonymously tipping off her parents that she’s been getting up to dangerous shit at night. They mentioned shoplifting and smoking instead of creating murderous thought-forms, but he’s betting her ass is still grounded until she’s at least thirty-five. 

 

So they stopped some people dying and were barely injured, so net win, but Dean’s still feeling unsatisfied as he leans against the car with Sam and Cas, having a beer in traditional post-hunt celebration. They’ll finish their beers, they’ll drive away, and Dean has this twinge in his side he’s pretty sure is from when he got sucker-punched earlier.

 

“Good work, Cas,” Dean says, clinking his bottle against the angel’s. “We’ll make a hunter of you yet.

 

Cas scowls slightly. “You needn’t mollycoddle me, Dean.”

 

"Okay, one, I'm not even sure what that word means, so I am definitely not doing that to you. Two, I mean it, you're picking it up quick. You should've seen Sammy, he puked the first time he saw a dead body on a hunt."  

 

"Dean, I was seven and it had been completely torn apart by ghouls." 

 

"Point stands."

 

Sam rolls his eyes. “You did fine, Cas.” He sets his bottle against a tire and stretches. “Be right back,” he says, lumbering off to pee in a circle in the cornfield like the overgrown wildlife that he is.

 

“Try not to leave any crop circles!” Dean calls after him. He turns to glance back over at Cas. “So what’s next for you, man?”

 

Cas looks up at the sky a bit wistfully. “There’s always another task for me in Heaven.” 

 

Dean snorts, which apparently triggers that ache-y twinge-ing in his side again. He looks up at the sky too. It’s that brief time of day right after sunset, when the sky turns this deep deep blue, right before it turns black and the stars come out. He doesn’t have a favorite color or any girly shit like that, but if he did, it’d probably be a blue like this.

 

“Hey Cas?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You should move into the bunker. With me. And Sam. With me and Sam,” Dean added hastily, feeling like his tongue was suddenly way too thick in his mouth. “I mean, I know you’re an angel and all again now but it’s not like you have a dorm room or whatever up in Heaven and the bunker’s freaking huge and I know what it’s like to not have your own space.”

 

“Dean…”

 

If he kept talking he could keep ignoring what he was saying. “So you could… kinda have it as a base of operations when you’re around.”

 

“Dean, I…”

 

“Keep your car there and stuff, I could give it a tune up and I bet you don’t even know the last time the oil was changed or the tires were rotated, do you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“‘Cause if you don’t check the fluid…”

 

“Dean, yes,” Cas repeats.

 

“What?”

 

“I’d like that.”

 

“Oh. Cool.”

 

They stare up at the sky some more, silently watching as it turns from the blue of Cas’ tie to a black to match the Impala.

 

Sam emerges from the cornfield. 

 

“What took you so long, Sammy? You run into some children out there or were you just playing baseball?”

 

His brother shrugs. “You go out a bit, all the rows look kinda the same.” 

 

Dean hands him his beer back. “Yeah, well next time we’ll tie some of Cas’ yarn to you before you go. Oh, so Cas is gonna be staying with us at the bunker, in between angel things.”

 

Sam looks between the two like he’s trying to decide how he’s supposed to react. Dean glares at him, then smoothes out his expression as Cas looks his way. He just got him to agree, he’s not gonna let Sam scare him off. He knows the message is received when Sam smiles.

 

“No, no, that’s good, that’s… that’s awesome, Cas. It’ll be great to have you around.”

 

“Do you, uh, have things to pack?” Dean says, wincing at how awkward he knows he sounds. “I mean, doesn’t have to be right now or anything.”

 

“No,” Cas says, “besides the pushpins,” and Dean makes a mental note to start making the guy buy some stuff for himself. Even if he and Sammy have lived out of duffle bags in the trunk of the Impala their entire lives they’ve still  _ had  _ duffle bags. And now there’s the bunker, and it’s plenty big enough to store whatever crap three bachelors can manage to collect, no problem.

 

“Okay, so how about you follow me and Sam back to the bunker in your car?”

  
  


*****Go with the flow*****

  
  


Sam has apparently just been waiting for a chance to get Dean back for the shortsheeting, or at least Dean assumes that’s what’s up when they come back from an overnight salt and burn to find his entire room smelling like something died in it and stayed dead.

 

Dean finds the culprit under the bed pretty quickly, yelling out a “DAMMIT SAMMY!” down the hallway in the general direction of his asshole brother. He scoops the fish up in some old newspapers and dumps them outside. The bed gets shoved, its feet scraping loudly in protest, to the side of the room so he can scrub at the floor. Everything should be gone but there’s still a lingering— fishiness to things. He grabs some sage from a storage room and sets it burning in a corner, finds an antique wire and metal fan in one of the other rooms and plugs it in so it’ll start pushing the briny air out into the hallway.

 

And then he goes to track down Cas.

 

It turns out Cas is kind of a Netflix fiend. He binge watches shows like only someone who doesn’t need to sleep or blink can do, and despite Dean (and sometimes Sam’s) best efforts, he watches EVERYTHING. So Dean’s not surprised to find him in the bunker room they’ve turned into a den (strapping a couch to the roof of Baby and driving it back was one of the most nerve-wracking things Dean’s ever done, and he’s faced down Lucifer a couple of times.) 

 

“Heya Cas,” he starts, poking at the pile of blankets with a pair of blue eyes faintly visible from within the folds. Cas’ head emerges like a beautiful grumpy butterfly from under a hideously ugly burnt orange crocheted afghan he found— somewhere. Dean would salt and burn the thing if he thought it was actually flammable.

 

“They voted off Felicia, Dean,” he says, his tone one of personal betrayal.

 

“I told you those shows are rigged, dude. Look, can I crash in your room tonight?”

 

Cas sits bolt upright.

 

“Sammy hid fish under my bed as a prank. I’ve got it airing out now but it’s probably gonna smell like they’re haunting it for another day or two.”

 

“Are the fish alright?”

 

“Well, they’re not doing so great, but they’re probably making some raccoons real happy right now.” Dean’s not really in the mood to do anything, even go to sleep just yet, so he plops down on the sofa next to Cas. “Hey, why don’t you put on one of those dinosaur shows and tell me what they get wrong?”

 

It’s a thing they do sometimes— put in a nature or a history show and let Cas correct it, or put on some stupid ‘reality’ paranormal hunting show so Dean can bitch about everything the would-be hunters are doing that would get them killed if they were actually hunting real ghosts or monsters. It’s stupid, but it works for them.

 

Dean wakes up some indeterminate amount of time later, the room dark except for the glow coming from the TV. The sound’s been muted, though. He’s covered in blankets, even his legs, which are sticking off the end of the sofa. His head is laying on something soft and warm that smells like— his brain registers “safe” and “family” before it gets around to IDing it as “Cas,” but either way he’s in that mostly still asleep state where the only important things are that he’s comfortable and not in any immediate danger. He can feel a hand brushing through his hair like his mom used to do. 

 

“Go back to sleep, Dean. You’re safe.”

 

The second sentence isn’t even finished before he’s done just that.

  
  


*****Gimme gimme*****

  
  


So things are basically good.

 

It doesn’t last, of course. Dean’s not that lucky.

 

He’s just returned from a supply run-- he’s thinking meatloaf tonight-- when Sam comes up to him, doing that thing where he tries to make himself look smaller. Which, for the record, a, does not work and b, is never a good sign.

 

“Hey, so, uh, you may need to talk to Cas?”

 

“What happened?” Dean says, looking around like he expects to see a monster behind Sam.

 

“Look, I told him he should talk to you when you got back, but…”

 

“Sammy, what happened?”

 

“He was watching Say Yes to the Dress and asking me about some things he didn’t understand and somehow we got onto proposals and engagement rings and at some point he kinda-- got a weird look on his face and said he had to go.”

 

Dean’s already dropped the groceries on the counter, pushing past Sam to head for Cas’ room.

 

The ring is sitting dead center in the middle of the bedspread, which is perfectly made with hospital corners tight enough that even John Winchester couldn’t have criticized them. Aside from the lack of dust, it’s the only sign anyone’s been in the room since the fifties.

 

Drawers are empty, the closet too-- even the stupid ugly knick knacks Cas had on the dresser are gone like they were never there.

Dean drops down to sit on the edge of the bed.  He’s not-- this is-- Fuck. He cradles his head in his hands. He’s not stupid. Cas isn’t off clearing his head somewhere. He’s gone.

 

Like Sam to Stanford gone.

 

Like Lisa and Ben gone.

 

He lets himself collapse backward onto the bed.

He feels something poking his back. Dean reaches underneath himself awkwardly to pull the ring out. The ring. Of course it’s the fucking ring.

 

He holds it up above him, peering through it like it’s going to show him something other than the ceiling.

 

Dean throws it across the room. He can hear the ringing sound it makes as it hits something hard and bounces, but he doesn’t see where it falls. Not like he’s looking.

 

It ain’t the ring that’s cursed.

 

He pulls himself back, rearranges his body so his head’s on the pillow, and just lays there. The bunker’s a kind of quiet he’d had to get used to, the kind of quiet where you have to listen for the sounds of plumbing or the hum of the generator or the distant footsteps that mean you’re not entirely alone. He had trouble sleeping there at first, too used to Baby’s purr or half-heard voices behind poorly built motel walls. 

 

The sheets don’t smell like Cas. 

 

Sam finds him like that some amount of time later, still staring at the ceiling like he can see the stars through it.

 

He takes one long look at the room and at Dean, but thankfully, just says, “I was thinking I could make us grilled cheese and soup?”

 

It’s one of the few things he trusts Sam to make, and Dean grunts an acknowledgement and hauls himself to his feet to follow his brother back to the kitchen.

 

The sandwich tastes like he’s chewing flannel, but that’s on him, not Sam’s cooking skills.

 

“Did you want to--” Sam asks.

 

“Nope.”

 

Sam pauses, lets him force down another couple bites of sandwich dunked in tomato soup before he tries again. “I’m sure Cas just…”

 

“You saw the room, Sammy. He’s gone.” Dean pushes away from the table, chair scraping on the floor loudly as he does so. “Getting a beer. You want one?”

 

“I don’t think you should be drinking right now.”

 

“Funny, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I should be.”

 

“I’m just saying--”

 

“Oh, I think you’ve said plenty already,” Dean says, slamming the fridge door shut hard enough to knock off the bee-shaped magnet Cas had stuck there to the floor. 

 

“Look, I just--”

 

“What, Sam?”

 

“You should talk to him.”

 

“He’s gone,” Dean says, popping the cap off his bottle. The beer fizzes up and out, a narrow stream running down his hand.

 

“So… so pray to him or something,” Sam says, making his concerned adult face, the one with the brow furrowing and shit.

 

“Don’t think he wants to talk to me.”

 

“When has that ever… Shit, that came out wrong.” Sam’s brow gets more furrowed and he leans forward slightly, hands held together in front of him. “Look, Dean, I don’t know exactly what’s going on between you two. It’s just… you’ve both seemed happier, since he’s been staying here.”

 

“And?”

 

“And he’s my friend too. So at least think about trying to talk whatever it is out with him, okay?” Sam gets the vaguely constipated look he gets when he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should. 

 

“Spit it out.”

 

“Cas always, and I mean always, comes when you call.”

  
  


*****Gimme gimme*****

  
  


Two days later sees them in Oregon. Dean made Sam a deal that he won’t drink anything harder than beer in return for them heading out the next day to check out a report of missing hikers. Maybe it’s nothing, but they’d been getting too comfortable in the bunker lately anyway. Do them good to shake off all that playing at domesticity.

 

They’re waiting on the coroner’s report ‘cause the office in this podunk town isn’t open on Sundays, which means an early night in at the roadside motel. They’ve both just changed out of their G-Men suits and Sam’s already got his laptop open, glued to the wifi. Dean heads for the door. “Back in a few.”

 

“Dean, we had a…”

 

“Ain’t going to drink, Sammy. Be right outside praying, okay?”

 

Sam squints at him, then nods.

 

Dean slides into Baby’s driver seat, gets comfortable. He’s thought about praying to Cas the last couple of nights, sometimes in quiet moments during the day. Just kinda talking at him when he thinks of something to say. Hasn’t managed it yet.

 

Stupid, but Dean’s never been the smart one.

 

“Hey, I, uh, I pray to the Angel Castiel. I’m at the Lamplighter motel, Route 31 outside of Paisley, Oregon. Sitting outside of Room 115. Look, I don’t know what Sam said to you-- but I’m getting the sense you ain’t too happy with me right now. Not sure exactly why but I got a few guesses.

 

“Wish you’d come back, talk to me, man. Bunker ain’t the same without you. Sam misses you. Hell, I-- You didn’t have to leave like that, you know. It’s your home too now. Even if you got a problem with me--” 

 

Dean slams his hands on the steering wheel. 

 

“No, you do not get to pull this. Not now, okay?” And sure Dean’s the biggest fucking hypocrite on the planet but that does not fucking matter right now. Nothing matters but fixing this. “You gotta come back, man. Please, Cas. Don’t leave me.”

 

There’s no answer.

 

He leans his forehead against the center of the wheel, hands gripping the leather to either side.

 

Dean heads back into the hotel room.

  
  


*****One more for the road*****

 

The hunt goes bad. 

 

Apparently sometimes when two people love each other very much and are trapped in starvation conditions on the Oregon Trail they become wendigo together, which-- Dean is absolutely not going to fucking think about ever because married wendigo--- Ew. No.

 

Also not thinking about the seven children that records say Jeptha and Martha Ledson had with them. 

 

Assuming he survives this.

 

He’s strung upside down in a cave along with some of the missing hikers. And fuck does Dean wish he could summon his out of reach weapons back into his hands with the Force right now.

 

Good news is that Sam isn’t strung up here with him, they split up before they realised there were two wendigo, so with any luck he’ll find Dean and the others soon.

 

Bad news is that in addition to doing his best impression of a cow carcass at a slaughterhouse, he’s bleeding out very slowly. Which means he’s probably going to pass out before Sammy can get here. His vision’s already going grey, his mind fuzzy. Though that might be the concussion.

 

So basically he has nothing to lose.

 

“Hey, praying to the Angel Casss-- hopin’ you don’t have my calls blocked. ’m in a cave in Fremont National Forest-- coupl’a wendigo got th’ jump on me. Sammy’s not here, buncha hikers are. About t’ pass out, could use a hand.”

 

His eyelids close like they’ve got weights attached, and it’d be so much easier to let himself keep slipping under, where it ain’t always peaceful but at least it’s quiet. But Winchesters are a stubborn lot, and Dean’s worse, so he forces his eyes back open. 

 

And now he’s hallucinating, because there are bright blue eyes staring back at him, only they’re upside-down. Weird.

 

“Whaa took y’so long?” he asks.

 

“There were a number of caves in this area, Dean, stay still.”

 

And then there’s a bright light and a familiar hand on his forehead and Dean doesn’t even bother trying to keep his eyes open anymore.

 

He opens them again to find he’s laying in his bed back at the bunker, and Cas is standing over him, hand still touching his head. As soon as he sees Dean’s eyes are open he starts pulling it away, but Dean grabs Cas’ arm before he can get anywhere.

 

“Cas I swear to your dad that if you try to leave right now I am going to march down to the storeroom and get the holy oil and summoning supplies.” He pulls himself upright against the headboard, one hand still holding onto Cas’ arm in a grip he knows would hurt a human. If Cas really wanted to get free, he still could, but it’s the principle of the thing. “Sam?”

 

“He and the hikers are safe, the wendigo are dead, and the Impala is in the garage.” 

 

“And it ain’t even my birthday,” Dean says, still feeling a bit loopy. “Sit, dude, you’re being all loom-y.” He tugs a little at Cas’ arm until he sits down on the bed next to Dean. 

 

“So look, I know I fucked up somehow, but you gotta tell me exactly what I did so I can try and fix it.”

 

“It wasn’t… it wasn’t you. Exactly.”

 

“So level with me, man. What’d Sam say?”

 

“We were talking about weddings. He… he opened up to me about Jess, about planning to propose to her, about how he’d saved up and picked out an engagement ring. And I thought about you, and how you’d given me one. You gave me free will, and a home, and a family, you’ve given me everything, Dean. And then you gave me a  _ ring _ .

 

“But you didn’t mean it,” Cas says, with this finality to his voice that hurts worse than most of the times Dean’s actually been stabbed. “Not like that. And I realised…”

 

“Look, I just… I saw the ring. And it made me think of you, and I got it. Simple as that.”

 

From the look on Cas’ face, it’s the wrong thing to say. 

 

Dean takes a breath. Then another.

 

He looks at Cas. Lets himself really look. Remembers all the times he thought he’d lost him. Remembers how it felt every time he thought he’d lost him. Remembers how he feels every single goddamn time he looks at Cas. Thinks about how he felt when he saw Cas wearing the ring.

 

Thinks about how he feels right now.

 

Knows he has one fucking shot to not irrevocably fuck this up.

 

He starts over.

 

“Look, if you don’t want it ‘cause you don’t want it to mean-- anything, that’s fine, Cas, it can mean whatever the hell you want. But if you don’t want it because you don’t think I want it to mean-- if you don’t think I mean--”

 

Dean drags his hand across his face. It would be easier to say this if he weren’t looking at Cas, ‘cause right now looking at him feels kinda like staring at the sun. But he can’t look away either. He owes him that.

 

“Maybe it wasn’t what I  _ meant _ , okay? When I got it for you. So? My whole fucking life has been a series of unintended consequences. But I swear to you, I promise you Cas, it was what I  _ wanted _ . Even when I didn’t know I wanted it. Us.

 

“So please, Cas. Can there be one good thing… can  _ this _ be one good thing I didn’t intend?”

 

He fumbles around in the pocket of his jeans. “Fuck. I was gonna… The ring, it must’ve fallen out of my pocket when they had me hanging like a bat.”

 

“You were carrying it?”

 

“Uh, well, I mean…” Dean fights the urge to minimize, to explain, to justify. “Yeah, Cas. I’ve been carrying it around since you left.”

 

Cas vanishes.

 

Dean blinks.

 

Cas reappears.

 

He’s holding the ring in his palm.

 

Dean snatches it back from him. “Shit, man, at least wipe it off first. It’s covered in-- who the hell knows what it’s covered in.” He spits on it, gives it a quick clean using the hem of his t-shirt. “There,” he says. “Should probably douse it in some alcohol or something but…”  

 

Cas is just looking at him, looking  _ through _ him. “Anyway. Uh, here,” Dean says, hesitant, offering it back. “It’s yours, Cas. If you want it. I mean, you got it back so I’m kinda assuming here, but… uh, me too, if you want me.”

 

“Dean Winchester,” Cas says, and he’s leaning forward, lacing their fingers together, the ring trapped between their hands.

 

Cas kisses like lightning, like the first time Dean saw him in that barn. He kisses like a kid at prom who’s never gotten past first base. He kisses like he never plans to stop, and Dean is completely okay with that.

 

He kisses like Cas, and it’s fucking perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an overlong layover at the BWI airport; I wandered into a jewelry shop, saw these meteorite rings, and immediately began spamming PorcupineGirl and ReluctantAbandon with texts about what would happen if Dean got one for Cas. Special thanks to PorcupineGirl, ReluctantAbandon, and vulgarweed. Follow me on tumblr at bamfinacuddlyjumper or twitter at winterdiscotent.
> 
> Zero research beyond Google Maps was done on Oregon, apologies for any inaccuracies.


End file.
